Authors: Linda Ford
“Sorry, miss.” He staggered to his feet and slouched back to work.
Before noon she had to waken him twice more. She'd let him go but then what would she do for help? She needed someone stronger than she to fork the hay into the wagon.
They worked until suppertime. Kate drooped when Mr. Cyrus left. She'd spent most of her time trying to keep him from napping. She wondered if he'd return in the morning. She almost wished he wouldn't but his help was slightly better than nothing.
But he did not return.
With no help she alternated between raking and forking the hay into the wagon. By evening, she'd made little headway and she ached so bad she could hardly move. At this rate the cows would have to be sold. How would she feed her children?
She prepared a simple supper then dragged herself out to the barn to milk the cows. Stifling her moans, she separated and cleaned up. She forced a smile as she helped the children with their chores and homework. As soon as they were tucked in she fell into bed.
She couldn't run the farm without help.
And she couldn't find decent help.
Perhaps she'd been foolish in not accepting Doyle's offer. He would have taken care of her in relative ease. The lap of luxury as Sally often said.
But even as her muscles and body protested she knew she couldn't marry Doyle. Not even to escape this backbreaking labor.
There had to be another way to keep the farm and manage on her own.
“God, show me what to do.” She fell into an exhausted sleep.
Mary shook her awake next morning. “Momma, it's time to get up.”
Kate moaned. Every inch of her body hurt.
“What's wrong, Momma?” Mary demanded.
“I'm just sore. Where's your brother?”
“Feeding Mr. Rabbit.”
“I'll be right out.” She waited for Mary to leave the room before she inched her way out of bed. She managed to get both feet to the floor but when she tried to stand, her back knotted and a sharp pain grabbed her. She gingerly pulled on her clothes and shuffled from the room, bent over like an old woman.
“Momma.” Mary rushed to her, jittered from foot to foot. “Are you okay?”
“My back is sore. I'll be better as soon as I get moving.”
She bit her lip and eased a breath in. Even breathing hurt.
“I'll be fine in a few minutes,” she assured both children as she waved them away to school. Dougie had eagerly volunteered to stay home and help.
But she wasn't fine. The pain did not ease up. By the time she suffered through the agony of milking the cows, she was in tears. She looked out at the hay field knowing she would not be moving a single blade today.
“God. Help me. How am I going to manage?”
L
oggieville had changed in ten years. Two more rows of houses backed Main Street, which was a block longer in either direction. A new church with a tall steeple stood to the right of the rail station. Some things remained familiarâthe schoolhouse still had the big old tree where he had played as a child. Some of the store names were familiar.
Hatcher's gaze went unbidden toward the river. From the station he could see only the line of trees. But his mind filled in the details. The level bank that provided a perfect spot for restless young men to congregate, far enough from town so they could be rowdy without bringing down the wrath of the older, quieter townspeople and where they could challenge each other in jest. Or in anger. Tree roots knotted the ground, making it difficult to stay upright as they jostled each other. Rocks of various sizes lay scattered along the shoreline. A deadly combination, as he'd learned.
He shook himself and pushed the thought deep into forgetfulness.
Johnny grasped his hand in a bone-crushing grip and shook it hard. “Good traveling with you.”
Hatcher grinned. “You slept the entire trip.”
Johnny nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Didn't have to worry about having my pockets lightened with you wide-awake, now, did I? You'll find your father back at the farm.”
Hatcher jerked his chin in, startled at the announcement. He'd thought, assumed, his father would still be in town, working just enough to provide his needs, finding a bottle somewhere so he could try and drown his sorrows. “What's he doing there?”
“Working. Has been for three years now. You'll find many things changed.”
“'Spect so.” It was the unchanged things that concerned him. Like himself. The way people looked at him. His father.
“Allow yourself to be a little open-minded,” the lawyer counseled. “You might be surprised what you'll discover.”
With a final goodbye, Hatcher, used to long treks, headed down the road toward the farm he'd once known and loved. Who were the current owners? What changes had been made? It no longer represented home, yet he searched the horizon for his first glimpse of it. Finally he saw it in the distance and pulled to a halt to stare at his past.
Emotions he wouldn't acknowledge pinpricked the surface of his thoughts. Not old. Not new. Yet deeply familiar. Or perhaps the familiarity came from his constant denial.
He shouldn't have come back. His return could only serve to stir up trouble again. Best thing he could do was head on down the road. Continue the journey he'd started ten years ago. The journey to nowhere. He half turned.
He'd promised Johnny. He owed the lawyer a huge debt. And something stronger than fear and caution tugged at him. He wanted to see his father. He wanted to see the farm.
His chest felt too full of air as he resumed his homeward journey. He came to the last little rise in the road and detoured off the road, found a grassy knoll, sat down and pulled his Bible out. He opened to Luke fifteen and read the story of the prodigal son. He'd read it many times in the past. Knew it by heart. Knew also, it didn't apply to him. He'd never be welcomed like that. Didn't expect to. It was a spiritual lesson about what it would be like to arrive in heaven. Yet he lingered over each word.
He looked up from the page, watched a tractor dusting along a field. The new owner, Johnny said, took over three years ago and had been generous enough to let Hatcher's father return to his old home.
Hatcher lurched to his feet and returned to the dusty road. His steps lagged as he drew closer to the farm.
Memories roared into him like a flash flood swirling through a gully, washing rocks, tearing things up by their roots.
All summer his mother sat outside the back door he could now see, shelling peas or stringing beans, peeling potatoes or mending. She loved to be where she could hear and see her boys. She included Hatcher's father in that description.
He shifted his gaze to the newly painted barn, the raw, new fences angling out, the two fawn-colored cows in a pen similar to one where he and Lowell played cowboy, riding steers, being tossed to the ground more than once. One time Lowell thought he'd broken his arm and made Hatcher promise not to tell. “Mother will make us stop if she thinks we're getting hurt.” Hatcher insisted on a similar promise the time he cut his hand carving a tiny propeller.
He chuckled, the sound making him blink.
It took him a long time to figure out how to balance the blades on a propeller so it turned smoothly. He laughed. The experience had been invaluable when he and Lowell decided to build a propeller-driven snow machine. What fun they'd had going to town that winter.
Hatcher stopped where the laneway intersected the road and stared toward the only home he'd ever known. He ached to visit but would the new owners welcome him or had they heard of what he'd done? Would they chase him off with a long gun?
Something tickled his nose. He brushed at it. Saw moisture on his fingertips. Stared at it in startled wonder. He touched his cheek again. Tears? He didn't cry, didn't even know how.
He scrubbed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands. Didn't intend to learn in the middle of the road.
He blinked to clear his vision. Where would he find his father? Didn't expect he'd be living in the big house with the new owners. Last time he'd seen the older man he'd been as dirty and ragged as any hobo Hatcher had encountered. Sure, he'd lost everything due to his own greed and carelessness. That didn't excuse letting himself go. He could at least have tried to pull things together instead of just giving up.
The tractor circled the field and stopped at a corner. The driver jumped off and trotted toward the house. Sure ran like Lowell. His mind was playing tricks, mixing his memories with reality.
The man glanced toward the road, saw Hatcher there and veered toward him. Hatcher's shoulders sucked up as he prepared for the usual curt dismissal.
The man truly reminded him of Lowell. His loose gait, the way he swung his long arms, the right one always pumping harder than the left. Even the way he wore his hat tipped to one side.
The man slowed his steps, stared at Hatcher, pulled off his hat and shook his head, revealing hair as black as Hatcher's own.
“Lowell?” Could it be possible?
“Hatcher? Hatcher. Where have you been?” Lowell closed the distance in five leaps and crushed Hatcher to his chest.
“My brother, I have waited and prayed for this moment.”
Even if his arms weren't pinned to his side by Lowell's embrace Hatcher couldn't have moved. His feet gripped the dirt, curling the soles of his boots. It was all that anchored him. The rest of him felt like bits of wood randomly tossed together so they formed no definable shape. Nothing in his mind formed any better shape.
He felt moisture on his cheeks. His tears or Lowell's?
“Is it really you?” He hardly recognized the hoarse whisper as his own voice. It sounded as though it came from some distant spot above his head.
There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.
Proverbs eighteen, verse twenty-four.
“Hey, brother. It's good to see you.” Lowell's voice was muffled as he continued to press his cheek to Hatcher's.
Finally, with a little laugh, Lowell pulled away, his hands gripping Hatcher's shoulders as if he couldn't or wouldn't let him go. “Thank God you've returned.”
Hatcher stared at his brother. “You're crying?”
“I'm that glad to see you.”
“I heard Father was here. I came to see him. Didn't think I'd see you, too.”
“Father lives with us.”
Hatcher shook his head. None of this made any sense.
Lowell draped his arm across Hatcher's shoulders.
“Come on and I'll tell you all about it.” He led him up the lane toward the house.
Hatcher'd heard of dreams so real you couldn't be sure they weren't. In fact, he'd had a few of them himself. But usually he jerked awake about the time he walked toward home. He kept expecting that sudden jarring, breathless, disappointed feeling when wakefulness dropped him back into reality. But one step followed the next until they stood in front of the door.
“Marie, come see who I found. Father, you, too.”
Now. It would end now. Just as the door opened.
But the door flew back, a very blond, petite woman rushed out, a towel in her hands.
“Marie, this is my brother, Hatcher.”
The young woman launched herself off the step into Hatcher's arms. He had no choice but to hold her as she kissed and patted his cheek.
Hatcher set Marie on her feet, let his fingers linger a moment on her arm, waiting for the flesh to disappear when the dream ended. She continued to smile magnificiently.
He blinked. It must truly be reality. “Your wife?” he drawled.
Lowell laughed. “I told you he was droll.”
Hatcher grinned at the teasing familiarity and felt the need to say something in kind. “And you have no doubt discovered Lowell is deadly serious at all times.”
Marie giggled. “Oh, indeed, that's exactly what he is.”
“Lowell, what is it?” A familiar voice called from the small outbuilding that had always been their Father's workshop.
“Father, come see what the dog drug home,” Lowell called.
“Lowell, what an awful way to talk about the brother you've worried about for years,” Marie scolded.
Hatcher grinned at his brother. “You have?” He thought they'd be relieved to never see him again, supposed his name was never mentioned. Then his attention focused on the man who hurried toward them.
The older man stopped ten feet away. His mouth worked soundlessly at first. “Hatcher. You've finally come home.”
“Yes, Father.” He waited for the rejection he feared.
Tears poured down his father's face. He sobbed once, choked a bit and said, “You are as welcome as rain, my boy.”
Hatcher closed the distance between them and hugged his father with a hunger bridging ten years. “Father, I am sorry. I hurt you. I sinned. Can you ever forgive me?”
The older man repeatedly patted Hatcher's back. Hatcher found the rhythm strangely comforting.
“Son, you have no need to ask my forgiveness. It is I who did wrong. I lost the farm and with it, I quit caring. You didn't deserve that. Either of you.”
Hatcher's shoulders relaxed as if he'd shed a ten-year-old, rock-laden knapsack.
“Come in, all of you. Dinner's ready and waiting.” Marie shepherded them inside the kitchen, rich with the scent of savory meat. She quickly added a plate to the table and the four of them sat down together as a family for the first time.
“Just likeâ” Hatcher broke off before he could finish.
“Just like when Mom was alive except now it's Marie.” Lowell took his wife's hand and squeezed. Then he bowed and prayed. “God, our hearts are full of gratitude this day. Thank You for Your many mercies, for today restoring my long-lost brother to us.” His voice thickened and he paused.
“Thanks for the food, too,” he finished hurriedly, as if tacking it on as an afterthought.
Hatcher, finally believing it was more than a dream, had a mind full of questions. “Johnny Styles said someone had purchased the farm.”
Lowell stuck his chest out. “I did. And Father helped. He'd been saving his money.”
Their father chuckled. “At the rate I was going it would be a hundred years before I had enough to make an offer.”
Lowell playfully punched Hatcher's shoulders. “I made some money out in California. My aim was always to get the farm back. Brother, we put in too much sweat equity to let some stranger reap the benefits.” He sobered and studied Hatcher's face. “I always intended both of us would be here but you plumb disappeared off the face of the earth. Where have you been?”
Hatcher felt their expectant waiting. “Nowhere. Everywhere. Mostly trying not to remember who I was, what I'd done.”
Father leaned forward. “You are my son. You are a Jones. And you've done nothing to run from. What happened was an accident. Everyone knows that.”
“I've been into trouble again. Called on Johnny to help me again.”
“Another accident?” Lowell asked.
“Nobody died this time if that's what you're asking.”
“I wasn't.” Lowell gripped his shoulder. “I meant whatever happened, I know it wasn't your fault.”
“Sorry. I guess I'm still defensive.”
Lowell snorted. “So what happened?”
Hatcher told them the story. He should have known the one thing they'd hook on to was the mention of Kate.
“Tell us more about this Kate,” Marie said, passing him a serving of rhubarb crisp.
“She's hardworking, determined and a good mother.”
“Is she pretty?” Marie asked.